—TWENTY-EIGHT—
Finality has a particular way of making you see every small, precious thing. It opens your eyes with a newfound appreciation for everything that is present and tangible.
My heartbeat even sounds louder, more alive.
Pressing my fingertips to my breastbone, I revel in the thrumming vibrations.
“You look like you haven’t slept.”
West eyes me on our parents’ sofa, his fingers linked around his drawn-up knee as he faces me. My palms curl around the hot mug of tea I’ve been nursing since dinner ended. I turn to him, perched cross-legged on my favorite ugly couch. “I had a nightmare last night and couldn’t fall back to sleep.”
It’s been forty-eight hours since Claudia Marks found her daughter, Amelia, swinging lifeless in the greenhouse, tethered to the rafters, hanging dead amongst the lively, cheerful crops and geraniums. By the time the police showed up to my house for questioning, the discovery had already been made.
I’m glad she found her.
Apparently, Claudia Marks is a well-known fashion designer with a sprawling waterfront mansion in Lake Geneva, so Amelia’s death has been headline news, while making the rounds on social media. I had no idea.
I’m realizing there was so much I never knew about the young girl who spoke in riddles and rhymes, who had a troubled mind but a good heart. The fact that I didn’t take the time to get to know her better haunts me.
Sipping at the tea, I spare my brother a glance. His ice blue eyes are narrowed at me in consideration. “What?”
“Are you seeing that guy?”
My grip on the mug tightens. West came by that night after I texted him about Amelia, and Parker was still there. There was a bit of uncomfortable tension between the two men, likely because of my brother’s loyalty to Shane, and also because, well, Parker’s people skills aren’t entirely impressive.
Parker put some distance between us when West showed up, but I understood. And even though there wasn’t any obvious PDA, the fact that Parker was alone at my house not doing work or projects, painted a fairly clear picture of implication.
Shifting on the couch, I look away from his probing, brotherly stare. “I’m not sure, West. It’s still new.”
I suppose that’s true enough. Maybe I’m downplaying it because it doesn’t feel new—it feels raw, intense, visceral. It feels like it was always meant to be; like it’s always been.
But we haven’t discussed titles or exclusivity, so I have no idea what Parker is thinking or feeling. All I know is what he’s shown me, and that’s his smile, his secrets, his first kiss, his effort, his trust. It’s the way he held me on my front lawn beneath sad stars and jaded moonlight, providing a quiet comfort I desperately needed in that moment. He stroked my hair, rubbed my back, silent, and yet his solace reverberated through me in remedying waves.
He spoke with the police officer who showed up for questioning, he helped me carry Nutmeg into the house, filling her little water bottle attached to the grates, and then he sat with me on the couch, my head on his shoulder, tracing invisible designs on my bare shoulder with his index finger until my brother stopped by.
So, yes, I suppose I’m seeing him.
I’m finally, truly seeing him.
West makes a sighing sound that reeks of disapproval. “Just be careful, Mel.”
“I’m always careful,” I say, expecting this reaction from him, but feeling irritated, nonetheless. “You know I wouldn’t jump into anything lightly.”
“I’m just not sure I trust the guy. He’s kind of a dick, and he’s so different from…” His words eclipse as he shifts his gaze over my shoulder. “Never mind.”
“From whom? Charlie?”
Silence.
“You can say his name, West. The only thing worse than being reminded that he's gone is pretending that he never existed.”
West’s crystal eyes flicker blue and melancholy as they find their way back to mine. “Yes. He’s different from Charlie. A lot different.”
“Different means different—it doesn’t mean worse. And honestly, you should be happy for me. I’m trying here. I’m trying to move on and start over,” I explain, my tone gentle but firm. “You don’t even know him.”
“Do you?”
My words clip before they leave my mouth when Mom and Dad saunter into the living room with two pieces of homemade cheesecake. I stretch my legs and straighten, placing the ceramic mug etched with elves and snowflakes onto the side table beside me. Mom loves her Christmas mugs, even in July.
“Mellie, my little Jelly Belly,” Dad sing-songs as he approaches with the dessert plate, grinning wide.
I simultaneously cringe and smile at the childish nickname, reaching for the plate. Mom hands the other piece to West. “Thanks, Daddy.”
“There’s nothin’ that Ma’s cheesecake can’t fix.”
Oh, how I wish that were true.
The tines of my fork dig into the delicacy while our parents seat themselves on the opposite loveseat, Dad’s broad arm draping around our petite mother with that same affection he’s always shown her.
Shamefully, that affection was the primary reason I stayed away for so many long, lonely months after Charlie passed—I couldn’t handle witnessing everything I’d lost.
“How is it?” Mom inquires, adjusting a jeweled barrette clipped into her bob.
West responds through a giant mouthful, “Divine.”
We fall into easy conversation, and I watch my parents kiss and cuddle with new eyes of appreciation instead of envy. I drink in my mother’s permanent smile and my father’s baritone laugh that always rumbles straight to my core. My heart flutters with joy, with gratitude, with life, as I swallow down the love in the room and let it warm me up.
My parents have never once allowed me to believe that my heart was wrong. Even on the bad days. Even when it was broken, weeping and bruised, they loved it anyway. They saw the beauty in it, flaws and all.
And for that, I know I am truly blessed.
Before I leave that night, I’m overcome with the need to do something. After I say my goodbyes to West and help my mother tidy the kitchen, I pull out my cell phone and open up my Hangouts app. My last message to Zephyr stares back at me, sent a few days after my disastrous video debut.
Me: Zephyr, oh wise one, you’re so good at giving advice. I was wondering if you had any insight into rejection.
He never responded.
Sucking in a breath, I let my thumbs dance across the keypad with one final message to the anonymous man with Charlie’s heart.
Me: I just wanted you to know that I’m doing okay. I realize you don’t care, because if you did, you would have checked in by now. You wouldn’t have left me doubting everything we shared together—doubting myself and my worth. I’ll never know what happened, or why you abandoned me, but I respect what we had enough to let you know that I’m okay. You were right when you said I stopped wilting a long time ago… but I think I’m finally blooming.
I don’t expect him to reply, just as I don’t expect a new text message from Parker to light up my phone face after I return home that evening and climb into bed. Swiping open the screen, my eyes scan over his message.
Parker: Hi
Oh, jeez.
An amused grin stretches my cheeks.
Me: Hi :)
I’m about to hook my phone up to the charger and go to sleep, not anticipating another reply, but a follow-up text buzzes through, causing my heart to stutter.
Parker: Just wanted to say that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Goodnight.
A breath sticks in my lungs, my eyes welling with stunned tears. The seconds tick by in slow motion as I re-read his words over and over.
And over.
Trembling fingers manage to put letters together to form something coherent, but nothing I say could possibly transmit the intensity of emotion swimming through my veins, shooting little shocks of happiness to my heart.
Me: That means more to me than you’ll ever know. Thank you.
Flipping off the bedside lamp and blinking away my tears, I fall into a peaceful sleep, nightmare-free, with my cell phone clutched against my chest.
When I pull into the support meeting parking lot the following week, he is standing outside, leaning back against the brick siding with his hands in his pockets.
Waiting for me?
The image steals my breath as I cross over to him from my car, greeting him with a small smile, my side braid bouncing along my shoulder in time with my steps.
Parker pulls up from the brick, tousling his hair with one hand as the other taps at the paint-smeared denim tapering his legs. “Hey.”
“Were you waiting for me?” I stop just short of him, watching his eyes case me, from my strappy sandals to my messy braid.
He swallows. “Yeah… I thought maybe you didn’t want to walk in alone. You know, after…” Parker heaves in a deep sigh, his attention shifting to the left, like he’s reining in his thoughts.
My hand lifts to grasp his bicep, squeezing gently. “That was sweet. Thank you.”
While I wouldn’t say I’m angry, I’m a little disappointed that he never contacted me after that heartfelt text last week. I messaged him the following day to see if he wanted to get together and grab lunch, but all I got was radio silence.
Parker’s jaw ticks as he stares at me, eyebrows knitted together. And then his tension releases with a long exhale, his eyes closing. “I shouldn’t have sent you that text.”
My heart sinks. “What? Why not?”
“Because it was sappy as shit, and now that it’s out there, I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Parker, it wasn’t sappy. It was beautiful and sweet.”
“It was embarrassing. You’re ruining me.”
My knee-jerk reaction is to feel outrage, to unleash my claws and sink them into him. But I reel back my emotions and try to understand him instead. His eyes look tired—swimming with confliction, worn and flustered. There’s no animosity there.
Parker genuinely has no idea what he’s doing.
He’s never been here before; he’s never had a reason to care or feel.
He’s never had a reason to say something like that, and I know that must be terrifying. Vulnerability is terrifying, especially if it’s something he’s not accustomed to.
“Listen to me…” My fingers trail down his arm until his palm is linked with mine, and I watch as his gaze follows. “You’re not ruined. You’re evolving.”
“Into a fucking pussy, apparently.”
“No, into a three-dimensional human being with complex feelings and empathy. There’s no shame in that.”
His head swings back and forth, as if he’s rejecting my claims, but his hand clamps around mine in a desperate, possessive hold. “This wasn’t supposed to be anything more than sex. I thought fucking you would get you out of my goddamn system, but all it did was bury you deeper. Bury me deeper. Now there’s no way out.”
My insides twist. “Are you looking for a way out?”
Parker’s eyes dance back to me, clouded with confusion, like he’s being pulled in two separate directions. It’s me versus the safety net of his lifelong complacency. “No,” he murmurs softly. Then a frown furrows. “I don’t know.”
Inhaling a shuddering breath, I remove my hand from his hold and nod my head, soaking up his answer. His indecision. “I think maybe you should think about this before we take it any further,” I tell him, glancing down at the pavement beneath my shell pink toenails. “And I’m not saying that out of resentment, Parker, I’m really not. I’m saying it because I have to protect myself. I have to protect my heart. I’m not sure it will survive another loss.”
When I look back up, his frown has deepened, his gaze tortured and searching. Parker’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat while he considers my words. “I’ll never intentionally hurt you, Melody.”
“Intentional or not, it doesn’t hurt any less.”
He clenches his jaw, teeth grinding together. His chin falls to his chest, a hard exhale following, and when he pulls his head back up, he’s closing the gap between us. Parker’s hands reach out to clasp my cheeks, fingertips digging into the skin and causing a gasp to escape my lips. And then his forehead is pressed against mine, our noses touching, as he rasps out, “I’m so fucked.”
He plants a hard kiss to my hairline, then bolts.
Parker leaves me there, just outside the entrance, and I watch in bafflement as he makes a hurried escape to his pick-up truck and hops inside, careening out of the parking lot with screeching tires.
My eyes water. I needed him today—I needed him to get through this first meeting without Amelia. I can hardly stand the thought of two empty chairs beside me.
Chest rattling, stomach spinning, I suck in a breath of courage and push through the main entrance, weaving down the hallway until I come across the familiar double doors.
I’m the last to arrive. Everyone is sitting, stoic and silent, while heads turn to face me as I quietly enter.
Alone.
Without him.
“Hello, Melody,” Ms. Katherine greets, and even her dazzling smile has dimmed. Mascara streaks paint her cheekbones, evidence of her grief, while plump fingers tighten around the journal in her lap. “Have a seat.”
Realizing my shoes have frozen to the squeaky floor, I find my footing and glide over to one of the three empty chairs, all in a row. Agony grips my heart.
“As most of you know, we lost a member of this community last week. A precious, valued member. A unique human being with a big heart and bright mind,” Ms. Katherine begins. Sweat dots her dark eyebrows as her focus lands on every one of us. “The one thing that brings us all together each week is the same thing that can easily tear us apart. I’d be lying if I said I felt no responsibility for what happened to Amelia—I was entrusted to help guide her, to keep her safe and protected from the ugly burden that weighs us all down. My duty is to show you the light through the dark tunnel we walk through together. To show you the beauty of life when the allure of death consumes you. It’s hard not to feel like I failed.”
My timid voice interrupts, unsteady and unplanned. “I was her Lifeline,” I squeak out.
A heavy plume of guilt hovers in the air, so thick I could cut it with a knife.
I wish I could. I wish I could slice it to shreds, cleave and carve it, sever it from my bones and bleeding heart.
But guilt is a stubborn invader, and it can’t be forced out.
Ms. Katherine’s expression is etched with tender compassion as her focus settles on me. “Lifelines are there for those who choose to use them, Melody. These meetings are a choice; this outlet of support is a choice. This weight is not yours to carry,” she says gently. Ducking her head with a sigh, she finishes, “Just as it’s not mine. It’s hard to see these things objectively when emotions overpower.”
My eyes sting with fresh tears.
“We are not responsible for the choices that others make. It’s human condition to latch onto the whys and what ifs because that gives us power when we feel like we have none. But we’re looking for power in the wrong place,” she explains. “The power is not in the past—it’s in the present. It’s in how we choose to move forward, and how we can mold our grief into something useful. Something beautiful.”
I drink her words in like sustenance. I never thought to look for beauty in grief. How can there be any trace of goodness in something so ugly?
At the end of the meeting, I stay rooted to my plastic chair as fellow members file out the double doors. I remain seated and still until the room is empty, save for only me and Ms. Katherine. She studies me fondly, almost as if she anticipated this engagement—this one-on-one interaction.
Swallowing a biting breath, I whisper, “How did you mold your grief into something beautiful?”
Ms. Katherine’s smile stretches her round, flushed cheeks, and she pats the leather-swathed journal that rests atop her thighs. “Can I tell you a story?” she wonders softly.
My nod is instant. Eager.
“I used to be a fourth-grade teacher,” she begins, dusting a patch of dark bangs from her eyes. “My students were my entire world. My saving grace. My friends and family called me Katy, but nothing sounded sweeter than Ms. Katherine.” Her eyes glint, turning wistful. “It’s against the rules to have a favorite student… but there was one. A boy. His name was Daniel Augustine, and he was a quiet little boy. He kept to himself most of the time, stoic and introverted. Invisible to most, but to me… his spirit shined bright.”
Goosebumps prickle my skin, my instincts already telling me where this story is going. My lungs burn, stinging my chest.
“Daniel came to me on the last day of class with a gift. He told me I was important to him—that my lessons were valuable, and my classroom was an escape.”
“What was the gift?”
She holds up the journal. “This.”
My eyes case the worn leather, a somber smile lifting on my mouth. “How thoughtful.”
“Yes,” she says, her gaze drifting to the floor, posture stiffening. “When I returned to the classroom that fall, I was given terrible news. Daniel had passed away over the summer. He’d found his father’s handgun and had taken his own life.”
A gasp breaks through, and tears slide down my cheeks. “He was so young…”
“He was. It was a horrible blow that threatened to take me down. I hardly slept for months, wondering how I missed the signs, wondering what I could have done to help him… to change his grisly fate.” Ms. Katherine’s eyes glisten beneath the recessed lighting, her voice wavering. “I finished out the year, and then I quit teaching altogether. I didn’t see the point.”
I swipe away the gathering tears with my wrist as I await the rest of her story.
“Eventually, I began to see things differently. I knew I could stew in my guilt, my regret, my grief, knowing the outcome would never change… or I could manifest those feelings into something good. Something commendable.”
“Something beautiful,” I finish with a sniffle.
She nods. “I created this group so I could reach other troubled souls. So I could make a difference. Even if I only touched one person—if I could only change one person’s fate, if I could help them see the good in life, the beauty in living and surviving, then it would all be worth it. Daniel’s death would not be in vain.”
Hot tears continue to fall, and I feel her words as much as I hear them. Glancing at the journal still clutched between her fingers, I lick my lips and inquire, “Can I ask what’s inside your journal? You bring it to every meeting, but I’ve never seen you open it.”
Ms. Katherine’s smile breaches her sadness. “It’s my starting points.”
“Your starting points?”
“Yes.” She rises from her chair, hesitating for a moment before she hobbles over to me on shaky knees. Taking her place beside me, where Amelia used to sit, she hands me the journal. “Here. Have a look.”
Faltering at first, I blink at the offering, eyeing her outstretched palms holding the beloved journal. It feels invasive somehow, like I’d be intruding on her privacy. On her secrets. But Ms. Katherine doesn’t appear apprehensive, and she continues to hold it out with assurance. With a hard swallow, I take the heavy booklet made of leather and paper, and bring it to my lap. Tracing curious fingers down the spine and over the front covering, I inhale sharply.
Then, I open it.
I’m startled at first, taking in the names at the top of each crinkled page. Familiar names. Robert, Jane, Nancy, Kevin, Stacy… Amelia.
My eyes widen, a breath lodging in the back of my throat. I glance to my left.
Ms. Katherine greets me with a knowing smile. “My starting points are your starting points.”
More tears rush to my eyes, and I can hardly see the pages. The ink and pencil sketches become a blur as I frantically wipe my eyes with trembling fingers, not wanting to stain the entries. Collecting myself, I sift through, eyeing the scrapbook of our sessions—of our lives. Each member has pages dedicated to them, riddled with quotes and hand-drawn pictures of our starting points.
Robert pushing his young daughter on the swings.
Stacy picking strawberries with her grandmother.
Kevin playing the piano.
A small cry breaks free when I discover Amelia’s page subtitled, “The Storyteller.” A lifelike drawing of Nutmeg is shaded in pencil as a beautiful girl with ribbons of dark hair clutches the animal between her hands.
I feel Ms. Katherine’s warm palm glide up my spine, an offering of solace. It’s enough to keep me turning the pages until I find my own dedication.
Melody.
I’m dancing in the lake beneath a picturesque sunset, my hair flying free, my arms spread wide. I’m smiling. I’m living.
I’m not ready.
My emotions twist into dread when I continue to flip the pages, unprepared to see Parker’s sad, blank pages. He never gave his starting points—not once.
Anxiety grips me, and I close my eyes, my heart thrumming with mournful beats. My chest aches. My skin turns clammy.
I don’t want to see… I don’t want to see his empty pages.
But I force myself to continue until I land upon his entry.
Parker.
It’s one page, and it’s not blank.
My stomach pitches when my eyes land on the drawing. It’s a sketch. Carved in pencil, shaded with color, brimming with detail.
Looking back at me is a woman with straw blonde hair, irises spun green, and a smile as bright as the summer sun.
It’s me.
Quiet tears manifest into a heart-rending sob as I break down, falling sideways into Ms. Katherine’s welcoming arms.
Parker’s starting point is me.